


no time for permission

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Consent Play, Drugged Sex, Multi, Rough Sex, implied ot5, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: Laughter, distant, and the crash of a breaking glass: Prokopenko hears them under the soft-raw haze sliding through his brain. He's sprawled on the middle seat of the couch. Kavinsky has Proko's head tucked in the crook of his arm, pressed threatening to the muscle and bone of his narrow chest.(Or: the one where Kavinsky and Skov work a blissed-out Proko over.)





	no time for permission

**Author's Note:**

> heed the tags. be aware that while this is one-hundred-percent consensual, it is still a fairly intense form of consent play.

 Laughter, distant, and the crash of a breaking glass: Prokopenko hears them under the soft-raw haze sliding through his brain. He's sprawled on the middle seat of the couch. Kavinsky has Proko's head tucked in the crook of his arm, pressed threatening to the muscle and bone of his narrow chest. Proko tastes the bare sweat-damp bumps of ribs under his mouth. One of Skov's legs is hooked over his on the other side, foot tucked behind his calf to anchor him spread open. It isn't polite or pleasant. He wouldn't ask for it to be.

Two separate hands—one hard around his wrist, the other twining scabbed knuckles between his—guide him, clumsy, a loose grip around each of their dicks in half-shed pants and the open fronts of expensive boxer-briefs. He's pinned here for their use, Skov making soft huffing moans and putting real effort into jerking himself off with Proko's hand while Kavinsky just hurts him sweetly, grinds the bones of his forearm so his grip twitches and spasms more than strokes. If he opens his eyes he can't focus on them and the colors make him nauseous, so he doesn't. He _feels_ instead: a gut-twisting ache he's so turned on, the thick sliding heat of them against his palms, the distant awareness of the party rolling on upstairs and the chemicals vibrating through his blood.

Skov comes over their hands a moment later. He continues to stroke, making a mess of his belly and underwear and Proko's fingers. He's laughing again, filthy, and the slick glide makes Proko groan.

"Good boy," he says.

A hand in his hair draws his head up against the constricting pressure of Kavinsky's arm. He blinks, bleary, and Skov kisses him with his eyes open. Then Skov's fingers, tasting like half-fresh wounds and slimy with his semen, replace his tongue. Proko licks him clean. Kavinsky's nails dig into the underside of his wrist and he shudders, turning his head, smearing his own spit on Skov's fingers across his cheek.

"Please," he slurs.

 "The fuck did you feed him," Skov murmurs, scrubbing his clean hand through Proko's hair as if in comfort. "He's _gone_ , man."

 "Something special," Kavinsky says.

Proko moans, a fine tremor working from his toes to the tips of his ears, and licks messy and inviting at K's chest, his nipple, the white soft skin of his belly. Skov helps him off the couch, onto his knees. He melts into Skov cramming his still-sticky hand down the back of his pants and underwear to squeeze his ass, into Kavinsky tugging his hair and mashing his mouth indelicately against his balls.

"He likes it," Kavinsky continues, voice a low hard thing that insinuates itself between Proko's vertebrae. "It makes him all fucking sweet, doesn't it?"

Skov snorts. The brief burst of sound contains a thousand arguments about tonight and Proko's loose limbs and fluttering eyelids. It says, above all else, _you're so fucked up_. Kavinsky wants to take the option of 'no' off the table; Proko gives it up, drops the pieces of himself in a glassy shatter of pleasure and submission. He goes further than the rest—goes moaning and hungry, where Skov can't without a fight and Swan won't and Jiang often spooks before he can slip under. It usually takes all four of them to bring K to his knees.

Then Kavinsky thumbs his mouth open and guides the head of his cock between Proko's lips, dragging them against his teeth. He manages to lift his arms and arrange them loosely around Kavinsky's waist, bracing himself, while Skov strips his pants and boxers to his knees. Those hands are an extension of the blistering heat building between himself and K, rather than a separate entity. It happens, sometimes, like this. The ties between them subsume underneath their ties to Kavinsky. He pulls the strings and watches them move, fight, fuck. The fabric of K's briefs sticks cool and wet against Proko's chin. He can't breathe. He twitches, a small shudder, and subsides.

"Careful," Skov murmurs. Hands stroke down hips, pinch his thighs. "He's not gonna tap out, is he."

"No, he isn't," Kavinsky whispers with furious reverence.

For a moment Prokopenko isn't sure if it's the drugs clawing him under of the lack of air, but his chest heaves in a helpless blocked gasp and shadows eat at the corners of his vision. There's nothing to stop K from choking him out. He's jerked alert covered in come and spit once or twice before, blissful and shaking, head spinning. Merciful—this time—Kavinsky drags his head up by the hair. He chokes and pants, almost gagging with relief. It's a mess: drool and precome and more. Kavinsky rubs his dick on his chin, against his throat.

Skov chooses that moment to split him with wet fingers, two short thrusts to get him in up to his hand, and Proko cries out. Kavinsky watches his face with a seething darkness, animal, the fist in his hair unyielding. He tries to close his eyes and K says, "No, keep them open, fuck you _look at me_."

Proko grinds his teeth and does as he's told, face burning with it, keeps his gaze locked on K's while Skov holds him by his stomach and fucks him with his fingers. The dragging catch of his knuckles is uncomfortable but the fullness and the stretch are sweet-hot. When he's in as far as he can get Proko finds himself riding back onto it with eager desperation. Some sensations are halved, others magnified. The stroking pressure inside him is the second. If he were less gone, he'd be pleading, and he knows it.

"Babe," Kavinsky says. His attention snaps back from the drift of getting fucked and the—sedatives? he's unsure—to the other young man's face. "Is it good? Tell him it's good."

"Skov," he moans.

"Do better," Kavinsky says. He leans down and speaks against Proko's open mouth, half a kiss. "Beg him for his dick, come on."

"Yeah," Skov growls behind him. He works a third finger in and strokes, crooking and spreading them.

Proko's first attempt comes out a slurred mess of vowel-sounds—too overwhelmed between the tacky wetness drying on his face and the smell of Kavinsky's arousal and the easy give of his body to Skov's hand. He's lax to the point of discomfort. It's the coasting moments before sleep, a weight and a falling emptiness at the same time, drawn out into an erratic and oppressive euphoria. It's so good _,_ though.

He manages: "Fuck—please get in me _please_ —"

Kavinsky grins, a savage flash of teeth, and tosses a small sachet to Skov. Proko pictures him biting the packet open and pouring the slick in a mess over himself. He's seen it before, a hundred times.

"Bet I can just—" Skov starts, then Proko goes stiff and his mouth falls open on a soundless shout because he's lined up and shoved in to full length at once, brutal and fast. "Shit that's good, you're so fucking easy."

Kavinsky laughs. Proko whines and flexes in struggle, more against himself and his lassitude than either of his partners, while Skov picks his pace: small vicious thrusts that hit deep over and over again. He's loose and soft in their arms and Skov fucks him like he's got permission to use him as cruelly as he chooses. The blooming pressure and heat in his guts scour him to the bone. He's full, under the skin and inside and out, spread and ruined between them.

"No _,_ " Kavinsky says, slapping his cheek. The snap of pain forces him to focus again on one swimming flash of an open white belt and the flushed thickness of Kavinsy's dick. He's drooling on his thigh, jeans rubbing his face raw.

"Fuck," Skov moans. Fingers dig between the notches of his ribs. "Is he about to pass out?"

"No, he isn't," Kavinsky answers and Proko hears the threat.

"That's—christ," Skov pants.

His rhythm changes, shifting to long strokes that light up the nerves through Proko's insides and the pulse throbbing in his balls. Skov groans, breathless, and rocks him onto those perfect endless thrusts. A blur of memory flits past the backside of his eyelids: sipping a beer while Swan plowed Skov bent over the arm of the couch with his mouth pressed to Proko's hipbone. He'd listened to Skov scream against his skin, sobbing, broken and beautiful with it.

It's disconnected, almost a surprise, when he shudders through a tender sudden climax. Kavinsky hums his approval, presses the hinge of his jaw with a thumb to fill his mouth again, and Skov keeps going. He's no less on fire for them. It hasn't changed his desperation, his pleasure. He lets them jostle and fuck and use him, a subtle chorus of gasps and expletives echoing in his ears. He loses track of time, of himself; it's all faded blank outside the fantastic agonies of his flesh. There's no part of him untouched.

When he resurfaces, later, there's a warm damp cloth scrubbing his face. He shivers so hard he spasms. Hands arrange him against the nude heat of another body. A quiet voice shushes him. He blinks and sees Jiang, cleaning him, still dressed. The hands spread over his chest are Kavinsky's—that's who he's lying on, a dog too large for this particular lap.

"Got him this," Skov says. He sits on the couch next to them, wearing his come-stained briefs, and feeds Proko a sip from a bottle of tepid water. "He's good?"

"He's fine," Kavinsky says.

"Give me a nod, asshole," Skov directs to him.

Proko nods, obedient. He does feel fine. In fact he feels a thrilled horrified pleasure at the knowledge that he passed out and, judging from the mess, neither of them _stopped_ fucking him. He's going to jerk off to that at some point, alone, the thought of his total lack of resistance and their ease with it—picturing Kavinsky's fingers keeping his mouth pried open while he came on his face, or Skov clutching at his thighs and dragging him onto a last handful of desperate shoving thrusts. For the time being, he intends to sleep in a pile of their limbs and unspoken care.


End file.
